


Let Bygones Be

by 2babyturtles



Series: Tumblr Fanfic Prompts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting over John, Getting over Johnlock, Healing, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John's Wedding, Moving On, Post sign of three, Romance, Sweet, They're perfect honestly, learning to love again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-07 11:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12231987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: The day after John and Mary's wedding, Sherlock wakes to the aftermath of an overdose and a pretty set of brown eyes looking back at him. For the first time in his life, he finds himself interacting with someone who really seems to care about him that isn't John, and his mind turns to all sorts of unfamiliar places.





	1. I'll Make Some Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a prompt fill for the Tumblr prompt for "You don't remember last night at all, do you?" BUT I love Shernine and it's going to grow into a big long fic because it's necessary.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, is that all?” She seems so cocky, like she’s the only one in on a private joke. Standing, she moves to the curtains and shuts them, providing instant relief to Sherlock. Her bare feet pad against the wooden floor as she returns to the bed and sits beside Sherlock. “So not the needles, the bottles, the broken tea set, or the kiss?”

Sunlight stabs through the open window, and a clammy breeze sticks to beads of sweat on Sherlock’s forehead. A groggy snarl bubbles from his throat, but he’s not yet awake enough to put words to his discomfort. Moving on instinct, he rolls onto his side, away from the window, and wraps his arms around the pillow in front of him. It’s soft surface blots away his sticky perspiration and he feels instantly relieved.

Cracking open an eye, he blinks slowly and searches the room in front of him for some motivation to get out of bed. He has no doubt, of course, that he won’t find any. The heavy residue of heroin in his veins reminds him that yesterday was John’s wedding. _The start of a new chapter._ He scoffs with his thoughts and rolls back onto his back, not pleased with the direction his mind is taking him and hoping a physical change will pull him away from his inevitable depression.

“Good morning,” a soft voice chimes from nearby, her Irish accent curling the words gently. “I bet you don’t feel too good.” A playful laugh tickles her comment, and Sherlock can’t help being surprised how quickly that chuckle became familiar.

“Janine?” he confirms, glancing towards the source of the voice, and blinking against the light.

She’s sitting on the floor on a pile of blankets and pillows, smiling up at him. Her dark hair is a mess, but it seems only to be softer than before, and her smeared mascara is somehow endearing. “You don’t remember last night at all, do you?” she laughs again.

Pushing himself into a seated position, he notices the distinct throbbing in his head, a sure sign he made some poor decisions the night before. “Not much,” he admits, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I remember the wedding.”

“Oh, is that all?” She seems so cocky, like she’s the only one in on a private joke. Standing, she moves to the curtains and shuts them, providing instant relief to Sherlock. Her bare feet pad against the wooden floor as she returns to the bed and sits beside Sherlock. “So not the needles, the bottles, the broken tea set, or the kiss?”

“Kiss?” he asks, shocked.

That sweet laugh. She can’t seem to stop laughing, actually, and her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Alright, I made that part up. But the rest was true. You were a mess when I found you, Sherlock Holmes. Who knew the great detective was so prone to vice?”

Sherlock grimaces, and returns to the task of wishing his head would feel better. Nausea bubbles in his stomach and he wonders if Janine would stop laughing if he threw up on her. With a sigh, he finally pays her some heed. “What happened?”

Finally, she frowns, although Sherlock can’t help wishing her lovely smile would come back. He chastises himself for thinking this way, knowing it’s largely a result of whatever he overdosed on the night before. “I’m not sure precisely when you left the wedding,” she begins, earning another grimace from the man beside her. “But John looked pretty worried when we sent them off. He and Mary were looking all over for you, but they couldn’t miss their flight so we sent them off and then I started looking around for you.”

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow, not liking the fact that he must’ve upset John, nor the fact that Janine wasted time looking for a man who was looking for a way out. “Why?”

She laughs again, and a smile threatens to pull up his mouth. “You’re so silly,” she chirps. “But anyway, so I couldn’t find you at the venue and headed up the road for a taxi. I figured you’d’ve gone home so I came here.”

“How’d you get in?”

“The door was open. You really don’t remember at all?” Her dark eyes search his face for a moment and seem to soften as they meet his. “You were a mess,” she whispers. “I came up the stairs and called your name but you didn’t say anything. I could hear you moving around in here though, so I knew you were home. When I came in, you were hardly conscious.”

Sherlock’s eyes close, wishing he could erase whatever memory she was replaying. Glancing down at his left arm, he can see clear proof of his own actions, and is sure the memory isn’t a pleasant one. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“What for? What you do with your body and your time is your business. I just hope I can make it a little better. Anyway, you had a needle in your arm and a couple of empty bottles were on the floor around you. You were sitting in the recliner in the living room.” She runs her fingers through her hair and doesn’t see his tense smile.  Pulling her curls into a messy ponytail, she fixes him with more stern eyes. “I think it’s breakfast time, Mr. Holmes.”

He stares at her blankly. He wants to be snarky or sassy, but he’s confused. And he’s fixated on a small brown curl that’s loosed itself by one eye, tangling down the side of her soft brown cheek. “What?” he finally manages to stammer.

“I’m sure you’re hungry. You didn’t eat a thing at the wedding and with the cocktail you took last night, I’m sure your stomach’s a rolling mess! I’ll make some eggs.” She returns to her feet and he notices for the first time that she’s wearing one of his tee shirts and a pair of boxer shorts that look suspiciously like his own.

When she leaves the room, he moves quietly to his dresser, urging a drawer out of its place. In careful rows, his tee shirts are still in perfect order. The next drawer reveals that his boxers are, too. Each index, so carefully maintained, has not been disturbed. He pushes the drawers back in and smiles to himself. She does look rather soft in his clothing anyway. He doubts he would’ve been too upset. But still…the drawers are _perfect._

“Sherlock!” her voice calls suddenly from the other room, a panicked yelp rising through her tone. “There’s body parts in the fridge. We’re going out.”


	2. It Isn't Just One Night's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Janine’s eyes narrow but she laughs, scrutinizing him through a guise of soft humor. “Is that as close as you get to love?”

“Why didn’t you ever tell John how you feel?” Janine asks, coating a fry in the yolk of her eggs and popping it into her mouth.

Sherlock, watching her over his massive plate of French toast, does a double take. “I’m sorry?” he asks, forcing himself to reconsider whether he actually thought she might be worth his time.

“It’s not hard to tell you care about him. Whatever that means for you two. But you never told him, did you, Sherl?”

He blinks stupidly, not sure which part of the comment he wants to address first. His head is throbbing, his heart is sore, and he doesn’t have the energy to engage in a battle of wits. “I’m sure John knows he’s a meaningful part of my existence,” he answers carefully.

Janine’s eyes narrow but she laughs, scrutinizing him through a guise of soft humor. “Is that as close as you get to love?”

The light plays across her face, heightening the colors in her skin, and he finds that he can’t be upset. She really does seem to mean well. He closes his eyes for a moment and runs through what he knows of this woman:

_Single. Sexually active. Close friends with Mary Mors--Watson. Lives alone. Moved to London within the past decade. Genuinely interested in Sherlock Holmes._

He opens his eyes. “Probably,” he whispers, cutting his toast with his fork. He makes neat squares out of the first slice and takes a hesitant bite. “I couldn’t help ask ‘then what?’ and it never seemed like the right time to consider it. It didn’t matter.”

“Is it just John?” her smooth fingers hunt another fire, following it around her nearly empty plate. She was as hungry as him.

“What do you mean?” The food hits his stomach with a sickening plop, but he’s grateful for the sustenance—and the company, if he’s honest with himself.

She miles again and he focuses his eyes on his food. “Did you ever fall in love with anyone else? Is it just men you like?”

“What’re you asking, Janine?”

They’re silent for a moment, and the din of the café suddenly swells to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind. The number of people here is nothing unusual, but the clanking and banging of dishes and cutlery is enough to make his pounding head split and he suddenly aches for the cool privacy of his own bed. He wonders if Janine might come with him.

“I liked Mary,” she finally responds. “It was nothing big,” she adds in response to Sherlock’s startled glance. “But I liked her. We never went out or anything, Mary wasn’t in to that. But it was sort of hard watching her marry somebody else. That doesn’t mean I only ever think of her, or that I only ever think of women.”

Sherlock couldn’t help being impressed. She’d answered his question without really answering it, and he was quite sure she understood. He wasn’t sure whether she was telling the truth, but appreciated the effort anyway. “But not stick-a-needle-in-your-arm upset?”

Her expression flashes dangerously. “I’ve been low, Sherlock. Don’t doubt that the inferior minds of the world don’t face equal sorrows.” Her eyes bore into his and he can’t help squirming under her gaze. There’s a seriousness he hadn’t expected to find there.

“No,” he responds. “It isn’t just John.” He lets out a breath when she looks away, not realizing he’d even been holding one. “But I wouldn’t know if it’s just men,” he continues awkwardly, not sure why he’s telling her this. “I’ve never….”

Janine’s smile is fast, returning with all the mischief and humor of that morning. “Bridesmaid…best man…,” she repeats. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, sincerely doubting whether he can trust his read on the situation. “Eat up,” she laughs, urging him with a nod. “We’ve got to get you healthy again.”

“I doubt one night’s OD has totally shot my health,” he responds, but shoves another bite in his mouth obediently.

“No,” she muses, softening in that sweet way she does. “But it isn’t just one night’s, is it, Sherl?”


	3. You're Wrong and I'll Prove It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I didn’t know any better,” he responds finally, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself—he’d made it a priority to change back into it when they’d arrived home—and glaring at her. “I’d say you’re here because you like me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because I adore Shernine. Also as a prompt fill for "You're wrong and I'll prove it." But mostly because Shernine.

Sitting in the living room of 221B again, Sherlock can’t help staring at the strange woman. She smiles idly, as if she’d not prefer to be anywhere else, which he can’t possibly believe is true, and smirks when she catches him looking at her. Of course, he can’t stop looking at her.

He opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Why are you really here, Janine?”

“Not much of a lady’s man, are you? I thought you were supposed to be able to figure these things out all by yourself,” she teases, smirking more broadly. She crosses her legs and leans forward, mischief shining in her expression again. “Come on. Figure me out.”

Sighing, Sherlock is suddenly less interested in games, distracted as he is by the headache that tells him it’s time for another hit. However, since that’s unlikely to happen, he resigns himself to the challenge. “If I didn’t know any better,” he responds finally, wrapping his robe more tightly around himself—he’d made it a priority to change back into it when they’d arrived home—and glaring at her. “I’d say you’re here because you like me.”

“Oh? And you think you know better?” There’s something edging at her voice, like when a parent helps a child with a puzzle for which the solution is hilariously obvious.

“Considering your primary goal at the wedding and what I can only assume my reputation must be, I can’t imagine I’m a worthy candidate for your attention. Beyond that I’m coming off a particularly nasty high and not likely to have be personable. I’m not _likable_ , and therefore you must not be here because you _like me_ ,” he concludes with a stern nod, settling the matter firmly in his mind.

Janine smiles and reaches towards him, bridging the short distance between them with a gentle touch to his knee. “You’re wrong,” she smiles, “and I’ll prove it.”

He raises an eyebrow again and allows the tension to stretch between them for a moment. Just before he’s going to move his knee away from her touch, she winks and pulls away. Moving to her feet, she steps around John’s chair—the chair that _used to be_ John’s at least—and through the kitchen to the bathroom.

“If it’s alright with you,” she calls back. “I think I’ll stay here. Is it alright if I shower?”

Sherlock’s expression tightens as he’s taken aback and he gestures loosely. “Sure,” he responds. “Don’t you have…work or something?”

“I don’t have to go in,” she responds, raising her voice to be heard from Sherlock’s bedroom. He moves to his feet and pursues her, moving hesitantly through his own flat. “My boss is out of town for the rest of the month, and he’s pretty flexible either way. He keeps such odd hours.” She turns in time to see Sherlock standing in the door way and flashes him another smile.

“Are you going to stay here the whole month?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows and looking her up and down. He doesn’t mean to. Her face is lovely and there’s certainly plenty to learn about her just by the way she holds that soft smile and the way her brown eyes seem to see everything. But the way she stands there in front of his wardrobe, one hip cocked, with bare feet playing gently against the floor, her toenails painted the same color as the bridesmaid dress he’d first seen her in…. She’s entirely gorgeous. She looks, somehow, as if she belongs there.

She grins and Sherlock remembers he’d asked her a question. “I’d like that very much, Mr. Holmes. Is that an invitation? I’d probably want to stop off at my own place and grab some clothes.”

He stammers, not sure how to respond and not entirely sure he can trust himself to say what he means. “I’m not a particularly pleasant man to live with,” he confesses, remembering that he’d made a better impression on John and even he didn’t want to stay.

“We’re not talking about me moving in,” she giggles, reaching forward to press her hand against the side of his face. He hadn’t even realized they’d moved towards each other until the warmth of her palm brushes his skin. “Unless you really want me to.”

“That’d prove me wrong,” he responds.

“What?”

“I’d be forced to think you like me then.” He allows a smirk to cross his face, eyeing her with the same sort of humor she’s been teasing him with.

She responds well, pressing herself onto her toes and leaning against his chest. “Start thinking it, Sherl,” she murmurs, allowing her breath to brush his lips before pulling away and grabbing the small pile of clothes she’d acquired from his wardrobe. Leaving him standing in his room alone, she makes her way to the bathroom for a wash, and his eyes follow her all the way there.


End file.
